


Crash Into Me

by Mohini



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Do not hug Natasha Romanov, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, Sickfic, Vomiting, adrenaline is great until it isn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 12:41:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16832827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: The fight isn't always over when the smoke clears. Some days, it follows them home hard.





	Crash Into Me

Calling the last few hours rough would probably classify as the understatement of the century. What should have been a quick snatch and run with some Hydra tech in the flyover states turned into a battle with too many bullets flying and entirely too much mop up to contend with. There had been a few moments when no one was quite certain who was winning, or if a winner could be declared at all. Steve will be very happy never, ever to see the eerie, blank game faces Natasha and Buck pulled on in that period. Come to think of it, he’d be happy if he could forget what a terrifyingly effective pair they are. The return flight in the quinjet is one of stunned silence, and the mood follows the team into the common area of the compound.

Buck’s sitting at the table carefully stripping and cleaning each of his weapons. The scent of Hoppe’s 9 is heavy in the air, but no one seems inclined to tell him to put the stuff away. It’s one of the few things about modern combat that Steve recognized on a sensory level fresh out of the ice. Most of the time, it’s an odd sort of comfort. During their time with the Commandos, that scent had been the clearest indication that they were at base, safe, for a moment or two.

Nat’s in one of the chairs by the windows, sitting cross legged and uncannily relaxed, head tilted back and eyes closed. Steve knows better than to think she’s asleep, but she’s definitely chill. Her lips move as she listens to whatever is playing in her earpieces. He can hear something about letting bodies hit the floor before he makes a concerted effort _not_ to listen in. Nat’s choice of relaxation music leans toward downright aggressive under the best of circumstances.

Steve wanders to the kitchen, standing with Tony and Sam and pretending that he’s not still badly shaken from the afternoon’s fight. Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once in what Steve’s come to understand is the modern equivalent of the hugs exchanged in the trenches of his first war. Tony hands him a beer. It’s another hug equivalent, kind in a way that reminds Steve that it was a truly horrible day but he’s surrounded by people who are, at their core, decent.

A small cough catches his attention and he spins to check the living area, hypervigilance not quite fully off for the day. Buck is still at the table, his Skorpion laid out to component parts on the cleaning mat. Nat hasn’t moved either, except she has. Her relaxed posture has morphed into one of careful stillness, eyes half lidded still but her muscles tightened to clear alert.

“Natasha?” Steve calls, moving in her direction by a compulsion he doesn’t recognize as anything but _friend, must help._

She waves a hand dismissively at him, teeth worrying her lower lip as her nostrils flare in breath. Her chest expands slowly and it’s obvious she’s holding onto the air in effort to steady herself in some way. It leaves her in a low, measured sound. The next breath is sharper, and she pitches forward as a stream of fluid gushes out of her and hits the floor with a splatter that has everyone’s attention now.

Steve reaches out to do something, hold her hair, or, no, it’s pinned out of her face still and he fumbles with hands in midair, not knowing what to do. She swats at him, raking nails down his forearm in warning. The message is a clear _go away_ but Steve wants to ignore it. She’s heaving again, sick soaking her legs and the floor between them.

“Don’t touch her,” Buck’s voice is firm, and Steve’s not sure how he missed seeing him rise from the table and bolt over.

“Natka,” Buck murmurs, “May I move you?”

He’s crouched just at the periphery of her vision if she were to open her eyes. She doesn’t, but she nods minutely, breath coming in raspy wheezes. Buck reaches out and wraps one hand around her bicep and the other under the opposite arm, lifting her smoothly to her feet and guiding her along.

A whine comes from tightly gritted teeth and they stop as she bends nearly double, coughing and sputtering until a rush of vomit hits the ground at their feet.

Tony’s muttering something about perfectly good bathrooms and the existence of trash cans, but there’s worry under the complaints. Natasha doesn’t do this. If anything, she holes herself up in her quarters and emerges after days of total nonparticipation a few pounds lighter and several shades paler.

When the heaving tapers into hiccups, Buck hauls her the rest of the way out of the common area and it occurs to Steve that opening doors for them might be a good idea. It also might make the screaming voice of his mother about lack of chivalry shut up in his head. Either way, he bolts ahead, shoving open the door first to Nat’s quarters and then to her bathroom.

She’s bizarrely compliant as Buck presses her to the floor near the toilet and lifts her up by the hips to slide the ruined pants off her body. Her shirt seems to have largely escaped damage and for that Steve is suddenly very grateful. It’s one thing to strip off together in staging areas and locker rooms. Here in private it seems an intimacy to which he’s not entitled.

“Head or body?” Buck asks her.

Natasha shrugs, wraps arms around the toilet and gags so hard it makes Steve’s stomach ache in sympathy.

Buck’s checking her over now, feeling along ribs and the back of her head, looking for any injury she might have missed – or conveniently chosen not to acknowledge, thanks be to over developed independence and pride.

“I’m not finding anything,” he reports to Steve. “Did you see her take a hit?”

Steve shakes his head, insulted. If he’d seen her injured, he wouldn’t have waited until now to address it. Buck knows him better than that. Or at least he hopes he does. The internal rant is interrupted by another guttural retch from Natasha and a small splash in the toilet.

“Breathe, Natka,” Buck’s telling her, kneeling behind with one hand cupping her forehead her to keep her from dipping her head fully below the rim of the toilet.

“Trying, dammit,” she shoots back between heaves. “This is fucking bullshit.”

The phrase makes Buck’s eyebrows lift in recognition.

“Adrenaline crash?” he asks.

“Fuck,” Natasha replies, gagging emptily again.

At least that means they haven’t all been hit by some kind of delayed biological agent, because of course Steve’s brain went there when Nat started hurling all over the place. It’s good news for the rest of them, but in the meantime, Steve sets to work finding a washcloth to dampen and hand to Buck.

He hopes Tony will have summoned the bots to deal with the mess in the common area. It’s not like it’s the first time someone’s christened the floor, and if days like today are going to keep coming, it’s surely not going to be the last.


End file.
